


The Road Not Taken

by Anakin_McFly



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:12:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anakin_McFly/pseuds/Anakin_McFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt - what if Olivia were FTM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Not Taken

**Author's Note:**

> Olivia is one of my favourite female characters of all time, and writing this almost felt like a betrayal. >_> In my headcanon she's decidedly cis female. But I saw this prompt and thought it would be an interesting writing exercise, especially since I'm a trans guy myself. This was originally written and published somewhere on a DreamWidth fic meme in May 2011.

There are things that Olivia Dunham does not dare admit even to herself. That way lies madness and the deep, desperate aching that used to wrench out heart-rending sobs in the darkest hours of the night, for reasons she does not want to face, or even vocalise in thought. Because nothing good can ever come from facing it: from falling into the _want_ of that yawning pit of unspoken desire. There are truths that must stay hidden, if they are there, whatever they may be. They are not for her to think about.

_Her_. The word is safe, like 'she' and 'herself', together a veil of comforting security against a panicked, screaming voice in the back of her mind pounding futilely on the walls of suppression. Those are safe words, and she never tries to think too much about how each feels like a tiny spearhead through her heart. 

Nobody guesses at the pain. She just smiles it all away and hides behind the perfect illusion of a scripted life, dressed in bright primary colours and figure-hugging clothes, playing the perfect daughter, perfect girlfriend, perfect agent. Everyone talks about how _happy_ she seems. So she _has_ to be happy, and the tears must be a lie.

She remembers writing her name out in kindergarten and stopping after the first three letters, crayon paused in mid-air, just looking at it. _Oli_. She remembers the warm rush of _rightness_ and the tingling jolt of forbidden excitement that ran through her whole body: a body which felt suddenly wrong in its costume of girl clothes and female anatomy, and for a moment she had a fleeting image of himself as a young boy with tousled hair and genuine smile. He reaches out a hand to greet a stranger:  
 _"And what's your name, young man?"  
"Oliver Dunham," he says, for unlike her, he has nothing to hide._

But then the fear drove by and moved her hand to finish the name, and she was Olivia once again, back in the safety of the shields of imposed facts, and no one suspected anything else of the small blonde girl with the perfect grades and ready laugh.

There are things that Olivia Dunham does not think about any more, and her mind fobs some excuse as she picks her way with an unnatural desperation through the home and belongings of her other self. If she has to take her place, she'd have to learn what it's like to be her. Replace the scripted life with another, similar one. 

She tears through shelves and closets. She finds simple, functional shirts and pants and suits in understated colours, basic underwear, scant makeup, no hair dye; and she tries to force away the tightness in her chest. Pride takes its place: she played the role better than _she_ did. She was the better woman. She made no compromise. Her performance was _perfect_ , to the point she sometimes believed it; to the point she could almost bear to look at herself in the mirror with pride and appreciate the person she had created, steamrolling over the cries of the young boy begging for his life and a body to grow up in.

She remembers the time they first met, she and _her_ , facing the barrel of a gun and demands to know where Peter was. _Peter_. She remembers the jealousy at their love and how it almost seemed real, unlike the pantomimes of heterosexual relationships that she so carefully constructed and directed for herself and Frank. She acted the woman, he acted the man. That was the only way she could make it work, but she never dared ask herself why; and she never questioned the moments when she was making out with Frank and wanted, with a lonely desperation, to join in. Theirs was a perfect relationship.

She remembers the careful chat, the first time they met, talking about family and who was dead in which world, casting out sarcastic quips, skirting the unasked question hanging in the air, forever unasked, never acknowledged, and forgotten about in the heat of their fight.

*

They meet again, in the bridge between their worlds, but at the brink of mutual destruction there are so many more important things than buried secrets they cannot speak of. 

The two of them alone, now, she turns to walk away. Because she's the stronger one, the _happier_ one, and, in the end of days, there is no time for personal angst. But then, several steps behind, she hears her voice call out to her in a sudden wash of tremulous bravery:

"Oliver."

Something jumps in her heart in a rash of pained joy, halting her steps as tears prick at her eyes. 

But she blinks them away, and collects her breath, and turns around with an eyebrow raised in bemused condescension. 

"What?" she asks, and she sees her face flush.

"I... didn't say anything," the other Olivia lies quickly, shielding herself with a tight, embarrassed smile.

She nods, eyebrow still raised, and turns around to continue walking out.

Because there are things that Olivia Dunham does not dare admit, _especially_ to herself. Especially at the end of the world.

For her mother needs her only living daughter.

And Henry needs his mother.


End file.
